


Blanche Ingram

by total_nerd



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:17:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3545753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/total_nerd/pseuds/total_nerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blanche Ingram, visiting her friend, encounters more than just the child he is now charged with.  She is swept into a somewhat sudden relationship of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Take My Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy. The timing of this piece is before Jane enters the picture at Thornfield Hall, right when Adele arrives. This is told in multiple perspectives, just two for the moment, but that may change in later chapters, if there are later chapters. I'll see how much time I have...  
> Also, in my opinion, the beginning is not as well written as later on, so it get's better.

My thoughts have been occupied all through dinner.  Edward had spoken about what brought him back to England, the girl.  He had spoken about how she needs a mother.  He resolved to silence as I kept dreaming about the quiet maid that accompanied the child.  Her tan complexion, bouncing brown curls, delicate waste, and kind face all mesmerized me.

“May I see her, Edward,” I tremble, cutting into heavy silence, words jumping out from my inner speculation, “Look upon her.  See what there is to be done.”  I know not whether I speak of the child or the accompanying woman as I utter the words.

“The journey has worn Adele,” he responds, indicating his interpretation, “The nurse has put her to sleep now.  You shall have to wait for morning.”  His tired eyes reveal that Adele is not the only ragged soul.  What he has been through could crush even the most hardy spirit.  It pains me to see a friend act so.

“If she needs a mother,” I say, “I would be happy to share the burden.  You… you are a valued friend and do not deserve solitude in your struggles.”

“Blanche, neither do you,” he replies, shifting his eyes to meet mine.  The strong look in his eyes, as though he reads my mind, sends a shiver down my spine.

“Why do you not meet with the nurse tonight?  Prepare yourself for Adele tomorrow?  I, on the other hand, shall retire.  The day has been long and my energy short.  Excuse me,” he says, pushing back his chair and standing up.

Turning to the housekeeper he instructs, “Mrs. Fairfax, please escort Miss Ingram to the parlour and send for Sophie.  Tell her to wake Adele up for brunch by eight and dress her well.  She will meet Miss Ingram then.”

Mr. Rochester, with a nod of his head, ducks out of the dining room.  Mrs. Fairfax leads me to the familiar parlour, then rushes off to complete her task.  She leaves me alone, gazing around myself at the satin drapes covering dusty windows.  The light is dim outside, but paints the sky with brilliant hues.

I am staring out the window when the nurse enters.  She is alone, confused about why she has been called.  A blush, poorly hidden, colors her strong cheekbones.

I greet her in French, “Sophie, correct?”  She nods in affirmation, the blush flooding more of her face.

“Please, sit down,” I instruct, “I am a friend of Mr. Rochester’s.”  She prances her tiny frame and perches on the end of the sofa across from myself. The blush intensifies, and I realize my err.

“No,” I clarify, “not in the manner of your old Mistress.  I merely care for the well-being of my long-time acquaintance.  I see him struggle.  I see him hurt.  I want what is best for him, for Adele…”  Tapering off, I pause, leaving the room in a still silence.  The rosy pigment has subsided substantially, but continues to accent her smooth features.  The few locks of hair that have escaped her simple, elegant bun, frame her petite nose, curving like a fairy’s slipper.  Thick lashes, brushing her skin, veil her piercing green eyes, diverted to the ground.

“Please, speak,” I prompt.  My own mouth not knowing of what I topic desired, only that I needed to hear the sweet lullaby of her voice.

“Mademoiselle Ingram,” she chimes.  I now am the one whose face flushes with red, as her accented speech pronounces my name.  “Adele is an energetic young girl.  You need not worry about her spirit.  She aims to please Monsieur Rochester.  She needs stability.  She needs love.  You could give that to her.”

“Could I?” I ask, “Could I be what she desires?  What she needs?  I could love her, but could she love me?”

“Mademoiselle, you need not despair.  No being could refuse to love a lady so lovely as yourself.  I expect Mr. Rochester feels the same way for you?  Do you expect to soon be Adele’s mother?”

“I am afraid you are mistaken.  Mr. Rochester and I, we love each other like a brother loves a sister, and a sister, her brother.”

“Then surely other must men love you like no brother would dare love a sister.” she quickly responds, tagging on that, “Apologies Mademoiselle, I mean not to pry.”

“Oh, do not worry.  I wish you not to fret, speak to me as you would speak to an equal!” I exclaim, “Already, I feel ease when speaking to you.”  Her lips curve into a minute smile, then strike into a severely neutral line.

“Mademoiselle…” she begins.

“No men court me.”  I interject, ”Both they and I would be unsatisfied in any relationship.”  I hope desperately that my meaning has not been lost in the subtext of my rigid French.

She smiles, asking, playful now, “Is there any relationship such a beauty as yourself would be satisfied in?”

“Presently, I gaze upon such potential.” I remark, maintaining eye contact with her emerald irises.  I rise from my chair.

“Come, join me, let us turn about the room,” I suggest, extending my arm to within her reach, “Take my hand.”

 

***

 

"Take my hand," she poses, fluent in my mother tongue, gracefully extending her arm, unraveling her fingers.  She stares into my eyes with an intensity that melts my thoughts.  Her soft palm faces upwards, beckoning me to meet it.  I desire nothing more than to feel her warm touch clasp my shaking hand, for her calming words to reach my ear, for me not to be alone.

“Mademoiselle Ingram,” I dictate, regretting my previous haste.  I now hesitate, not wanting to mutter the response I know I must, “We cannot”  She knows as well as I do that what she wants—what we want—is forbidden in more ways than naught.  I lower my eyes to keep from the temptation of retracting my response.

Blanche slowly folds her arm again, grabbing it with her other hand, and securing it behind her back.  She turns away from me to face the fire hearth.  Her swirling ebony locks, pinned up in luxurious curls, sway with the movement.  I ought to leave, to forget what she said, to return to work, but my shoes will not budge.  She mutters some English words I do not understand, then suddenly spins, skirt dancing, as she glides forward.  

In a single swift motion her gloved fingers wrap around the small of my back, forcing me closer.  Our noses graze each other.  My heart pounds in my chest, threatening to wake the sleeping occupants of Thornfield Hall.

Her powdered face is without blemish.  Her golden eyes blaze with ferocious tenacity.  I want to close the gap between us.  I want to squeeze the exterior world away and leave only the two of us.  I want to forget about class.  I want to forget about society.  I want.  I want.  I want.  I want to love.

I reach my hands up to caress her gentle face.  Heat radiates from her silky skin.  A smile spreads across her face.  She leans closer to me, I can feel her uneven breath along the tingling hairs of my neck.

“We can,” she mutters into my ear, sending a rush of color to my face.  I notice the complex texture of her lips.  The pale peachy of lips, curving as she speaks.

“Mademoiselle,” I begin.  She pulls back, causing a wave of worry to overcome me.

“Blanche,” she protests, “Call me Blanche.”  A French name.  White like the roses at Versailles.  White like the snow that blankets mother nature during her long rest.  White like the purity of true love.

“Blanche,” I correct, reversing roles and pulling her in, her chest against mine, “This is awfully sudden.”

“It is,”  she responds, leaning her silky forehead even closer to my, “Is that okay with you?”

“It is,” I mutter, closing the distance, kissing her, gently at first, then with violent passion.


	2. The Future's Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Sophie and Blanche's first meeting, the residents of Thornfield Hall contemplate what the future may hold for themselves.

The following day, after grooming the young Adele to satisfaction, dressing her in the frilly pink bows and lace she demands, I lead her down the grand staircase to a prim sitting room, lain with a feast of pastries and English delicacies. Shepherding the silly girl through the thick oak doors, my heart is stunned at the sight before me.  
Oh, for I had convinced myself that the angel before me last night was a heavenly dream too beautiful for Earth’s crude form! But there sits a figure, undeniable in her presence, proof of the memory I had denied my thought. I can still remember the sweet embrace, her gentle arms wrapped around me, the perfumed scent of lavender that encompassed the air surrounding her. I can feel my face reddening as I stand before her.

A sweet green silk flows across the chair she is seated upon. Like a refreshed Spring morning, alive with nature’s hum, a bright grass expanse spreading far beneath Heaven’s horizon, the smile in her eyes burns with the brightness of the sun. Her smooth eyebrows, arching as she laugh, her fingers twirling the ribbon at the end of her sleeves, the little vibration of her leg bouncing with anxiety, her small habits are so perfectly cute.

Suddenly returning to reality, I curtsy before the Lady, instructing Adele to do the same, then shuffle to the corner embarrassed by my hesitation.

“Adele,” pronounces the sweet voice of Mademoiselle Ingram, “How was your journey?”

“Oh Mademoiselle,” Adele exclaims, “You speak French as beautifully as Monsieur Rochester! How wonderful! And your dress! Ah, I want one so pretty, but in pink! Could you get me one Mademoiselle?”

Releasing a sigh, Blanche responds, “You would have to speak to Mr. Rochester, Adele. How about you sit down and tell me about yourself? I am told you are quite the accomplished young lady.”

“Oh! Well Mother told me I am an excellent singer!” Adele responds, overeager to show her worth, a trait common amongst forgotten children, “Would you like to hear, Mademoiselle?” Adele, not awaiting permission, begins to stumble through the seducing song she learned from listening to her mother practice over many nights.

After but the first verse, Blanche cuts her off, “That shall be enough for now, darling. Your voice is quite beautiful, I am sure that with much practice…” Before she could complete her idea, though, the young spirited lass, feelings as fragile as glass, shouts.

“Practice!” Adele exclaims, “I have practiced, you English oaf! I am a better singer than you ever will be. You are nothing. I am all. I will show you. I shall be the one with Monsieur Rochester’s attention.” On the verge of tears, she violently stands from the table, then proceeds to hastily exit the room. Shocked, by the sudden eruption, I hasten to follow her.

“I am so sorry, Mademoiselle,” I mutter as I close the doors behind me, still unable to meet her eyes, though disappointed on leaving her company so soon.

 

***

 

Tears streak down my face. In the corridor, I artfully sneak up the stairwell, past my chambers, and into a door laden with dust. Within the cloth covered room, I sight the silhouettes of a writing desk, bed frame, and arm chair. I dramatically pull of the sheet off the chair, causing the first stir in the room for what appears to be years. Knowing it would be long before Sophie discovers my hiding spot, I slump down in the chair and curl into a ball like I did when I was little and my mother was busy.  
It is not fair. All I want is to be pretty, to be lovable, to not be left behind. Everyone I have loved, who has loved me, have been torn from my life. It hurts, and it is not fair.

Sophie is the only one I have, but she is incapable of understanding the woe I face on a daily basis. I have lost my mother’s love. I have lost my country, my culture. Now, Mademoiselle Ingram wants to keep me from gaining the love of Monsieur Rochester. The nerve she must possess to be capable of stealing from one who has so little. I just want acceptance. I hate her for taking that from me. She mocks me. She does not accept me.  
The door creaks open and in strides Sophie.

“I do not want to talk,” I state, outlining my intentions clearly, hoping to be left alone. I do not need her. I do not need anyone.

“That is understandable, Mademoiselle,” Sophie responds, voice higher than her usual instructions. Her tone galls me. She acts as though she does not believe me, contradictory her spoken words. I dislike what I cannot comprehend.

“You may leave me alone,” I explain, my pitch only wavering minimally. Mother always said I was a strong young lady.

“Why of course, Mademoiselle,” using the same tone as she slowly sways over to my bundle on the chair.

“Sophie,” I manage to utter. I sense the tears returning.

“Yes, Mademoiselle?” She now reaches me, her eyes wide. The emerald irises, always caring, peer down upon me.

Extending my arms upward to her distant shoulders, I hold back no longer. Salty raindrops dot my freckled face. Sophie reaches down to me, lifting me from the chair, holding me tight in a motherly embrace.

"You shouldn't worry about the future when you could focus on what's in front of you now," her scratchy voice advises, “Little Adele, I know this is hard at the moment, but you are loved. You are not alone.”

“I love you Sophie,” I tell her between sobs. How wrong I was about her level of perception. Sophie, _my_ Sophie, has always been there for me.

“I love you too Adele,” she reminds me, “And I am quite sure Monsieur Rochester and Mademoiselle Ingram will too. No one may resist your stunning charm.” She smiles. I smile.

“Now, let us leave this moldy room, you should freshen up before you apologize to Mademoiselle Ingram.” Sophie instructs, softly placing me on the wood paneled floor, and leading me back to my rooms. I follow her, trusting she knows the future is safe.

 

***

 

 _“What should I do?”_ I ask myself, finally able to put Adele to sleep, with the promise she would apologize before supper. Ah, the Mademoiselle Ingram, how poorly she must think of me now. If last night truly was no dream, then now surely it will be a figment forgotten in the past.

I must move past what I carelessly allowed happen. I must remain professional, and if that means no eye contact and not accompanying Adele in Mademoiselle Ingram’s presence, then so it shall be.

Madame Fairfax loudly bangs into the room, then, noticing Adele’s soft, sleeping breathes, she quiets her behavior.

“Sophia!” she whispers harshly, then proceeds to gargle English syllables at me, jabbing her wrinkled finger at my chest plate, then exiting the room, not looking back, but expecting me to follow. Sophie is not short for Sophia, and Mrs. Fairfax’s anger was not lost in translation. I slide into the hallway behind her, leaving Adele in her peaceful slumber.

I slowly struggle to form an intelligible English sentence. The few words I know come from the overheard conversations of Adele’s mother and her foreign guests, most hardly applicable to this conversation.

“Miss-us Fairfax,” I hesitantly begin, “What happening?” She responds quickly in a blur of sound then grabs my hand and with rough speed, leads me down to the parlour. Again, she utters indiscernible words, points at the doors, and stares at me expectantly.

 

***

 

I lean against the cold doorframe, ear pressed, straining to pick up the voices within the closed off room. The miniscule crack between weathered molding and sturdy door allows small wisps of conversation to flutter through. While my French is as rusty as the hinges the door hangs on, it shall suffice to supply an understanding of the dialogue within.

Miss Ingram greets the maid, an peculiar emotion entwined in “…the shortened nature of our meeting.” The muffled response, dampened by the thick walls, brings me no meaning. As one of the women pace across the floor, the shuffle muffles the softly spoken words. The Lady responds, I catch few words as she moves away and towards my listening hole.

“…I thought it was made clear last night… ” Sophie must be in trouble. I would not doubt such of a frivolous French nursemaid. Can’t even control a young girl for nigh ten minutes! It is immature maids such as her that give us all a bad name.

Straining to hear, her flustered reply, whether regretful or reasoning, I lose track of my surroundings, enveloped by the juvenal thrill of eavesdropping.

Preceded by three sharp taps of a walking cane, “Good evening, Mrs. Fairfax,” the surprised laugh of Mr. Rochester discovering my curiosity, “Has the door fallen ill? Please tell me it retains its pulse.”

I play along with my master’s jest, “Oh, there appears to be some splintering along the frame, sir. We do not want Miss Ingram to scratch her hand on the way out.”

“Of course,” he nods. Just then, Sophie reappears, slipping through the door. Pausing briefly to curtsy to the gentleman, she mutters an excuse about checking upon Adele, and hurries upstairs.

I picked up French while sitting in on young Master Edward’s sessions years ago, though I do not intend to reveal my level of cognition. If a lesson has been learned in my tenure at Thornfield Hall, it would be that knowledge makes a safe future, and secrets are the lock and key that secures knowledge.

 

***

 

“I regret the shortened nature of our meeting this morning.” I aim to greet her warmly, showing her that I care, though emotions—especially their expression—have never been within my skillset.

Sophie’s gentle entrance elicited a flutter of my volatile heart. Her smooth features put me little at ease, exciting me in frenzy. To keep from bursting my dress’ seams, I begin to frantically pace along the large paned window.

“Much apologies, Mademoiselle Ingram. I know not what came over the young Mademoiselle.” She speaks detached from the soft syllables she utters.

“Repent not for Adele’s action, but for the nature of your address to me. I thought it was made clear last night. Call me Blanche.” Was that too harsh? I want not reprimand the delicate angel.

An overwhelming necessity sweeps over me, to grab her by the collar and force her to understand my feelings. I _need_ her to comprehend what my own heart cannot.

“Much apologies, Mademoiselle, but I cannot… not out of lack of desire, but out of… I am unable to find suitable words.” Irked by her continual dismissal, I resolve to suppress my craving for an us, to turn my mind from her, oppress a blinding, rising foam of labyrinthine sentiment.

“Sophie, my dear, do you believe I do not feel this? For I do! Kid yourself not. This may be forbidden by society, but it feels to right to be wrong, does it not? Sophie, I understand your hesitation, you require time to ponder this possibility. So please go. Go with the knowledge that you may return.” My only hope lies in the future, an unreliable variable all beings must cope with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there. So this time I wrote from more character's perspectives and experimented with showing the same moment from different viewpoints. If you have any tips of comments please leave them! I know this is not that good, but I think it will help me improve my writing overall. Thank you for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.  
> This may or may not end up including multiple chapters... we'll see. Sophie/Blanche is actually something I've wanted to write for a while, so I hope you liked it :)  
> If you have any advice or constructive criticism, it would be much appreciated.  
> Thank you.


End file.
